The Hand of Fate
by mille libri
Summary: Before the Archdemon, before they were King and Commander, Thora and Alistair were just two people brought together by the Blight. A love story in three chapters. Prequel to "No Armor Against Fate" and "When Fate Summons".
1. Alistair in Ostagar

_A/N: This story precedes the events of _No Armor Against Fate_, covering three important moments in Alistair and Thora's early relationship. In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you that my husband wasn't wild about this chapter, but as I fiddled with it I realized that it's exactly the chapter I wanted to write and tells the story I wanted to tell, so I'm posting it as is with apologies if any of you agree with my husband! Standard disclaimer: the world of Dragon Age and all its denizens belong to BioWare, not to me. _

* * *

"Listen," Alistair said again to the mage, trying to be patient. "All I'm trying to tell you is that the Revered Mother sent me with a message for you." He sighed inwardly, having known this would go badly as soon as the Revered Mother gave him the task.

"What does she think, that I'm just going to dance because she snaps her fingers?" the mage grumbled. Alistair didn't have an immediate comeback, because his attention was caught by a person coming around the corner of one of the crumbled old walls. It was a small person, little bigger than a child, and Alistair realized with some surprise that it was a female dwarf.

He turned back to the mage, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation, but he kept glancing at the dwarf out of the corner of his eye. He'd never seen a female dwarf before, and this one didn't look at all like he would have expected. Of course, what he mostly would have expected was a male dwarf with longer hair, and maybe without a beard, so it wasn't too surprising that the reality was different.

"Fine!" the mage snapped. "I'll go see what the Revered Mother wants." He turned on his heel, nearly tripping over the dwarf, and spat an extremely rude word at her before storming off.

Watching the mage go, Alistair sighed. "You know, one good thing about a Blight is how it brings people together." Realizing belatedly that he'd spoken aloud, he glanced at the dwarf with embarrassment.

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. "You are a very strange man," she said at last, in a surprisingly rich and melodic voice.

Alistair grinned at her. "I've been told that before," he said. He walked closer, his eyes on her face. She was pretty, he noticed in some surprise, with a sweet mouth and red-gold hair smoothed tightly back. Idly he wondered if she always wore it like that or if she took it down sometimes. He was curious what she was doing here at Ostagar—didn't dwarves mostly stay in Orzammar? And then it dawned on him. "Oh, I know who you are," he said. "You're Duncan's new recruit. From Orzammar!" Great, he thought, I sound like a gibbering idiot. "I'm Alistair, junior Grey Warden."

"I know," she said. "Duncan sent me to look for you."

"He did?" There was an awkward pause—at least, it felt awkward to Alistair.

"I believe Duncan's waiting for us," she said, rather pointedly.

It must be time to take the new recruits out, then. Alistair looked the dwarf over. She wore her armor easily, like she was comfortable in it, but did that mean she could fight? He guessed he was about to find out. "Let's go, then, shall we?"

The dwarf nodded, turning back toward the rest of the camp, and Alistair fell into step next to her, shortening his stride to match hers. "Um, been on the surface long?"

She raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were warm and brown, but serious. Maybe even a little sad. "Only since Duncan recruited me," she said briefly. Alistair wondered what the rest of the story was, and if sometime he would get to hear it.

A piece of the puzzle was revealed as they walked across the camp. There were a couple of dwarven merchants wandering about. One of them saw the dwarf at Alistair's side, and his jaw dropped to the ground. He rushed over to her. "My lady Aeducan!" he cried. Then he stopped stockstill, looking shocked, and whatever effusion he was about to make died on his lips.

The dwarf blushed pink. "I'm sorry," she said quietly to the dwarf merchant. "That person no longer exists."

The merchant backed away slowly. ""Forgive me, Your … uh, um, ser. I didn't mean to—"

She shook her head. "No need to distress yourself," she said. As the merchant hastened off, the dwarf—Aeducan? Was that her name, or some kind of title?—continued her progress toward Duncan's fire as though nothing untoward had happened. It was on the tip of Alistair's tongue to ask about the incident, or to ask what her name was, but she threw him a look that seemed to indicate she wouldn't appreciate being questioned. So he didn't. He might not know much about women, but he knew better than to displease one who wore swords on her back.

Duncan was standing at his fire with Daveth and Jory. Both of the recruits looked down at the dwarf as she and Alistair approached. Jory's look was superior, as always—the big man with the greatsword clearly thought he was better than the dwarf with the crossed swords strapped to her back. Daveth looked at the dwarf with respect. He usually leered at any female in his path, but not at this one.

There wasn't time for Alistair to consider this phenomenon. Duncan nodded at him. "Are you ready to take the recruits into the Wilds, Alistair?" he asked gravely.

"Ready, Duncan." Alistair stood a bit straighter at this demonstration of the older man's trust in him.

"We're going into the Wilds?" Jory sounded displeased.

"There be witches in those Wilds!" Daveth exclaimed nervously.

The dwarf said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on Duncan, her face retaining its serene expression. Alistair vastly preferred her silence to the shrillness of the other two recruits. He found himself taking a step closer to her, allying himself with her rather than with the other humans.

Duncan handed out small glass vials, one to each recruit. "Each of you will need to fill one of these vials with fresh darkspawn blood. Also, somewhere in the Wilds there is a strongbox that can be opened only by a Grey Warden. You need to get to that strongbox and retrieve the papers within it."

Daveth and Jory looked eager. This was the mysterious and exciting Grey Wardening they had signed up for. "What kinds o' papers?" Daveth asked.

Looking at Daveth, Duncan hesitated for a moment. Then his gaze moved to Alistair, and to the dwarf, and something in his shoulders seemed to relax. When he spoke, it was the dwarf he addressed. "They are treaties," he said. "They bind our allies to send troops to help in the event of a Blight."

"How will we know where to look?" she asked.

"Alistair will lead you to it," Duncan told her. Alistair's heart swelled with pride, until it dawned on him that Duncan was speaking to the dwarf as though she was the leader of the mission. Who _was_ this woman, anyway?

The dwarf went through the gates first. Daveth and Jory hung back, looking respectively scared and unhappy. After a few steps, when she realized the men weren't following her, the dwarf turned to look at them. "Let's move!" she said. Her voice snapped with undeniable command, and all three men obeyed her instinctively.

Alistair's attention was caught by Daveth, who was walking close beside him.

"You know who she is?" the cutpurse whispered. "Dwarf back in camp told me—she's a ruddy princess! Commander of the Legions of Orzammar."

"What?" Alistair's first reaction was disbelief, but then he remembered the dwarf who had nearly knelt in front of her back in the camp. Watching her, Alistair could believe she'd been a commander. And she was certainly pretty enough to have been a princess. "But what's she doing on the surface?"

Daveth shrugged. "Dunno. Can't have been good, though—Orzammar doesn't kick you out unless there's no other choice."

Watching the sway of her hips, obvious even in the armor she wore, Alistair wondered what someone so lovely could have done to be exiled from their homeland. Suddenly she stopped moving, drawing her swords. Alistair was startled—he hadn't felt any darkspawn approaching—but understood when the first wolf cleared the trees, lunging toward her. She cleaved its head from its body in a swift motion that had all three men staring at her. The other wolves followed quickly, and soon all four were fully engaged. Alistair hated fighting wolves—his shield was less of a weapon and more of a hindrance in their case than when fighting men or larger creatures.

At last the last wolf went down, skewered through the spine by the dwarf's sword. She pulled it back out, wiping it neatly with the grass. "In Orzammar, we have to carry our own cloth to clean off our swords in battle. This is much easier. No time to waste, men," she added, leading the way through the brush.

Alistair caught up with her in the next clearing. "You don't seem too uncomfortable in the Wilds," he remarked, and immediately kicked himself. Why couldn't he ever say anything interesting to her?

The dwarf tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. "I suppose it would make more sense if I was," she agreed. "Still, it isn't too far off from the Deep Roads. Things creep around in the shadows, things brush your face when they hang down, things grasp at your ankles as you walk past. Of course, they're different types of things." She looked around appreciatively. "And here you have … sun. And air, and birds that sing." She plucked a flower from the ground. "And flowers. I'd never seen flowers before I—left." She stowed the flower away in her pack. "Your shield is an effective weapon against smaller creatures, you know. You're not using it that way."

The sudden transition startled Alistair. "I can't really hit them with it, you know," he said. "I'm too tall."

"Yes, but you can make better use of your shield than you did. Remind me when we get back to camp, I'll show you some pointers."

He felt a flash of annoyance. Who did she think she was, telling him how to fight? But if she'd truly been a commander, maybe she did know. His thoughts were cut off by the tingle that meant darkspawn. He shouted the word, watching Jory take a step back and Daveth look apprehensive.

The dwarf fought the darkspawn with the skill of a seasoned warrior. Which she was, Alistair reminded himself. It was difficult to look into her beautiful face, even blood-spattered as it was, and remember that no matter why she had been allowed to—forced to?—leave Orzammar, Duncan had recruited her for a reason.

They completed their mission, finding the treaties in the hands of two strange swamp witches, and returned to camp. Duncan received them at his fire, studying them all. Alistair was familiar with that gaze—he had seen it turned on many people in the six months he'd known Duncan, and he shivered, not wanting those dark eyes to pry inside him and find his secrets. Secrets? Alistair frowned at the thought. He'd never known he had secrets—everything he was had always been open for Duncan to see. But now …

Without thinking, Alistair let his eyes wander from Duncan's face to the shining red head of the dwarf who stood next to him. He thought she was the prettiest, most intriguing woman he'd ever met. And after today, she must surely think of him as a prize idiot. He had a sudden vision of her at the Joining, her eyes rolling back and shining white, and he shivered. _Maker, don't let her die_, he thought, and then wondered if the Maker had any oversight over dwarves in the first place.

The recruits were given an hour to prepare themselves for the Joining, and they scattered. Daveth started chatting up the blonde soldier he'd been talking to since his arrival in Ostagar. Jory went into his tent, folding his belongings precisely, stowing them neatly into his pack. What did he think, that he was going home? Alistair felt apprehension build up in his stomach. Jory really didn't understand what he was here for. It seemed unlikely to go well. He looked around for the dwarf. He saw her at the kennels, digging the flower she'd plucked in the wilds out of her bag and handing it to the kennel master. Alistair felt a heated rush of jealousy that startled him. Why was she giving a flower to that man? Had she known him before? Did she like him?

_Get a grip, Alistair! _This was hardly the time or place, and it was none of his business anyway. It was just … that Alistair wanted to see her look up at him with the interest and respect she was showing the kennel master. Growling at himself in annoyance, he turned and headed to the area set aside for the Joining, beginning to lay out the items Duncan would need, trying to ready himself for the possibility that she might die.

The recruits drifted in slowly. First Jory, looking impatient. It was ever more obvious that somehow Jory had failed to understand the commitment he was making, and Alistair was torn between sympathy and irritation. Didn't the man realize what an honor it was to be chosen? And if all he wanted was a safe life at home with his wife, why hadn't he stayed there?

Daveth slunk in next, ostentatiously adjusting the leather codpiece under the skirt of his armor. Apparently he'd caught the blonde soldier at last, Alistair thought.

The dwarf was the last to arrive. "Am I late?"

"No, Duncan's not here yet. Soon, though." Without meaning to, Alistair asked," What were you and the kennel master talking about?"

"He has a sick mabari," she answered readily. "He'd asked me before we went into the Wilds to keep an eye out for that flower I picked up; he hopes it can cure the dog."

"The dog? The flower was for the dog?" Alistair coughed slightly, hoping she hadn't noticed how inappropriately relieved he was. "Er, I didn't know the dwarves had mabaris."

"We don't. Orzammar's overcrowded as it is, the last thing we need are giant dogs as tall as we are." She looked tired, suddenly, and sad. "But I've read about them, of course. And if you can heal suffering by simply plucking a flower, why wouldn't you?" She said it matter-of-factly. "The kennel master says the dog should survive, now. And if—" Whatever she was going to say was cut off by the arrival of Duncan.

"It is time," Duncan said.

The preparations were made, the Joining chalice prepared. Alistair spoke the words, his eyes on Duncan to keep his mind off what might happen when the three recruits drank from the cup. Duncan handed the cup to Daveth, who drank and died. Jory backed away, the reality of what he had agreed to finally clear, desperately begging for his life, and, decisively, Duncan ran him through. The blood was still seeping from Jory's lifeless body when Duncan turned to the dwarf.

"The Joining is not yet complete. You are called upon to submit to the taint, Thora."

_Thora_, Alistair thought inanely, _her name is Thora_. Every sense was focused on the beautiful face as she took the huge cup in her tiny hands and drank deeply. Duncan caught the cup as it fell, and Alistair could feel each beat of his heart thudding in his chest as the dwarf—Thora—staggered backward, her hands to her head, her face filled with pain. With a cry of anguish, she fell forward into Duncan's arms. Duncan's hand touched her face tenderly, and Alistair found his own hand reaching out in an echo of Duncan's movements.

"She lives." There was a wealth of relief and pride in Duncan's voice, and Alistair felt tears stinging his eyes as he closed them in a silent prayer of gratitude. He hovered over Duncan's shoulder, waiting to see the brown eyes open. At last they did, fluttering slowly and then looking up, sharply into Alistair's own.

"Welcome back," he said, and kicked himself again. She'd just been through an incredibly tense experience, she needed wise guidance and reassurance, and what could Alistair offer? _Welcome back. How meaningful._

Duncan looked at her sympathetically. "I am called to be present at the Council of War. Your presence is requested as well, I understand," he said to her. Somehow Alistair wasn't surprised that Cailan didn't want him at the table, but the omission stung, as well.

"May I—have a minute?" The dwarf's voice was faint and hoarse.

"Of course." Duncan bowed to her before turning on his heel and walking toward the council area.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked the question without thinking. She seemed so stunned and shaken, standing there in the midst of the carnage. "Of course you aren't." He stepped closer, reaching out, wanting to touch her, to reassure her.

"Is it always like that? I am … no stranger to death. Or to sacrifice. But that—is not what I expected." She closed her eyes.

"In my Joining only one of us died. And it was still horrible." He didn't want to tell her that the Joining was only the beginning. There were so many things she would have to know—Alistair was glad that Duncan would be in charge of giving her the full extent of the bad news. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked instead.

She reached out and touched his hand. At the contact, Alistair felt a jolt of lightning that took his breath away, a response that was obscenely inappropriate given the two dead bodies they were standing next to. "I appreciate your concern," she said. "I just … need some time to think."

"Um, sure," he said as she withdrew her fingers from his hand. "Anytime." His skin tingled where she had touched it, and he could feel her nearness now, the taint in her blood calling to the taint in his. He was used to feeling the other Wardens in his blood, but this was different—this was a heavy, almost intoxicating pulse. He swallowed, hoping she didn't notice the effect she was having on him. "Duncan … and the King are probably waiting for you."

"As you say." The dwarf squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath, and then she turned and went in the direction Duncan had. Alistair watched her go, admiring her strength, before he turned to his own task, that of cleaning up the bodies and preparing a pyre.

When Jory and Daveth were ready to be seen to the Maker, a ceremony that would have to wait until after the battle, Alistair found Duncan and Thora at Duncan's fire, talking quietly about the council meeting. Thora looked at Alistair sympathetically, and Duncan avoided his eyes.

"What?" Alistair said, looking from one to the other.

"The King has personally requested, Alistair, that you and our new recruit here be given the honor of lighting the fire at the top of the Tower of Ishal to signal our reinforcements."

For a moment, Alistair couldn't believe what he had heard. "I'm not going to be in the battle?"

"It is the King's wish, Alistair," Duncan said, his voice fraught with meaning. "It is not for us to go against his wishes."

"But—I wanted to fight with you!" He knew as soon as he said it how much of a spoilt child he sounded like, but since he had known there was to be a battle, all he had wanted was to fight at Duncan's side. He resented being kept out of the line of fire, pushed aside like a little boy.

"Alistair!" Duncan's voice was harsh with reproof and surprise, and Alistair flushed. No matter what his feelings were, he didn't want his last words with Duncan before the battle to be complaints and disappointment. He glanced at Thora, who watched him with understanding, and he felt reassured that she would be with him throughout the battle.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. You're right, it isn't my place to argue with the battle plan." He grinned suddenly. "But just so you know, if they ask me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line."

"Now that I'd like to see," Thora said, her warm voice rolling over Alistair in the darkness of the busy camp.

He turned his smile on her. "Maybe for you," he said. "But it would have to be a pretty dress."

Suddenly, unbelievably, she laughed, a rich deep chuckle, and Alistair was stunned at the immediate physical response he had to the sound—it was as though she had touched him intimately. He stared at her, trying to remember how to breathe, and a single thought formed bright and shining in his mind. If he had anything to say about it, if his future was ever his to decide, he'd like to spend it all making this beautiful woman laugh.

He collected himself enough to commend Duncan to the Maker, and be commended in return. When he finally turned to face his destiny, pointing black and sharp into the sky, Thora was at his side, just as she should be.


	2. Thora outside Redcliffe

_Thanks everyone for the enthusiastic comments on the first chapter! I really appreciate it! _

The West Road toward Redcliffe was a mess, as the Dalish Keeper, Lanaya, had predicted it would be. A wet, muddy mess. Thora's mood was not improved by the water falling from the sky or the grey mass that obscured her beloved sun. During her first days on the surface, she had assumed that the darkening of the sky and the resultant chilly wet emissions were something to do with the Blight. Even though Alistair had patiently explained away that misconception, Thora still thought the rain was disturbing and found herself shrinking from it instinctively.

The mud that sucked at her boots and made each step a struggle was, if anything, worse than the rain. Thora said as much to Leliana when the ex-Chantry sister appeared at her side, irritatingly cheerful as always.

Leliana laughed. "I think it's beautiful," she said, turning her face up to the sky to catch the raindrops in her mouth. "It is part of the Maker's world, here for us to appreciate." She looked down at Thora. "Without the rain, there would be no flowers, my sun-loving little friend."

"Do you know what we do in Orzammar to people who are cheerful for no good reason?"

"No need to be so gloomy," Leliana said. "I'm sure the weather will clear up soon." Her face belied her optimistic words, as she glanced doubtfully up at the heavy cloud cover.

Behind them, there was a series of loud squelching sounds. Thora looked over her shoulder and saw Alistair catching up with them. His hair was plastered to his head, rain dripping off the end of his nose, and Thora wondered what had happened to his cloak. She'd looked at it enviously several times—it was thick and waterproof and looked very warm. But as he approached them, his long legs allowing him to catch up fast, he wasn't wearing it.

"What is your hurry, Alistair?" Leliana asked.

"Morrigan," he snapped. "That woman makes me crazy!"

Thora felt a flash of completely overblown irritation. So what if Alistair and Morrigan sniped at each other all day? So what if that kind of sniping, in Thora's experience, led to sweaty groping in the nearest closet? What was it to her? After all, she was a dwarf. There could never be anything of a romantic nature between herself and Alistair—so why did she let the obvious tension between witch and warrior get to her? She sighed loudly.

"What?" Alistair looked down at her. "Is there something wrong?"

It was hard to focus on him with the rain splashing on her face and getting in her eyes, but Thora had to admit that even dripping wet, he was handsome. Most dwarves would find his small amount of facial hair indicative of a lack of size in certain other areas, but Thora liked it—he seemed less hidden without a heavy beard and mustache. Usually his face was open and smiling, but in the last few days, since they'd turned their steps away from the Brecilian Forest with the promise of aid from the Dalish and toward Redcliffe to gain Arl Eamon's help, Alistair had been snappish and humorless. Notably, he'd been avoiding Thora, and she missed their frank conversations and the sense of comradeship they'd formed since Ostagar.

"I wish you and Morrigan would leave each other alone," she said at last.

"Fair enough." He opened his mouth as if he had more to say, then hurriedly thrust a bundle of something at her. "Here." And he strode up ahead, catching up with the mabari.

Exchanging a curious glance with Leliana, Thora unrolled the bundle to find Alistair's thick warm cloak. When she swung it over her shoulders, she discovered it had been clumsily hacked off at the bottom to fit her own shorter frame.

"Oooh," Leliana said. "I thought so."

"You thought what?" Thora asked, luxuriating in the soft warmth of the cloak around her.

"He likes you."

Pulling the hood of Alistair's cloak aside so she could see better, Thora turned to stare at the other woman. "What? That's impossible. He's human," she said dismissively.

"What difference does that make?"

"Well … I'm a dwarf," Thora said.

"I can see that," Leliana answered. "You're also quite beautiful—it would be more surprising if Alistair _didn't_ notice."

"Wait, so you mean— You mean it isn't forbidden for a human to … be with a dwarf?" Thora felt a fluttering in her stomach, and her eyes strayed to the broad back and long legs of the man ahead of her. She had enjoyed this particular view a number of times, but always furtively, as though she was doing something wrong by staring.

"Not at all."

Thora shook her head. "Why would someone like Alistair look twice at me? Especially not with you and Morrigan around. I'm sure you're much more his type. He thinks of me as a comrade, nothing more."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "My dense and stubborn little friend, it was not for _my_ warmth and comfort that Alistair cut up his luxurious cloak. A man does not do something of that nature for a 'comrade'." Chuckling, she picked up speed, moving ahead through the mud.

Thora felt weak in the knees. Could what Leliana had said be true? Was Alistair interested in her? Could she allow herself to be interested in him? As a princess in Orzammar, she had always known her affections were not hers to command, that the best she could hope for was an amicable marriage arranged for political expedience. Like many nobles, she had experimented freely in her early teens, but once she came of age, her father gave her a stern talking to about the behavior expected of members of the royal family. From that point on, she'd kept a firm rein on her emotions—the determination to do honor to her house through her behavior the only thing that kept her from yielding to the never-quite-hidden invitation in Gorim's eyes. Well, that and the fact that Gorim might well have been killed if she'd dallied with him and been found out, and he deserved better than that.

Now, though, all the rules were changed. She was a surfacer now, a Grey Warden, with no title, no House to honor. She was free to act—and until that moment it had not occurred to her that she might be free to love, as well.

But to love Alistair? To love her Second? Would that put both of them in danger; would their emotions keep them from being a solid fighting unit? As she looked him over again, she sighed heavily. It was a moot point, anyway. Leliana's insinuations surely were little more than the red-head's romantic imagination. A man who looked like that would have his pick of women. Surely his interest lay more in the direction of the human women—why would he be interested in a dwarf? The secret spark of illicit happiness that had begun to warm her heart went out, and she trudged through the mud feeling even more depressed.

They had reached a region of rocks and red cliffs towering over a vast lake—nearing Redcliffe, she suspected—when Thora found Alistair walking next to her. "Hey," he said, looking miserably nervous.

"Hey," she said shortly, feeling irrationally angry with him. As if it was his fault Leliana had gotten her hopes up, Thora reflected. In a less waspish tone she added, "Thanks. For this," gesturing to the cloak. "Um, did you want this back?" Of course he didn't. It was way too short for him now. Still, though, it felt uncomfortable accepting a gift from him.

He peered down at her through the drizzle. "No, you keep that." He cleared his throat, scraping his feet through the mud. Finally, he said, "Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something."

"All right.

"I, um, should probably have told you this earlier." He fell silent again, running a hand through his hair so that it stood up in wet spikes.

Thora waited for him to continue, but it was clear that he wasn't going to, at least not without some significant prompting. "What's on your mind, Alistair?" she said at last, wondering what could possibly have him this upset.

It took him so long to answer that she was sure he'd lost his nerve. Finally, he said, "I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? How my mother was a serving girl in the castle? The reason he did that was because …" He took a deep breath, and then finished the sentence in a rush. "Well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my … half-brother, I suppose."

Thora stopped walking. She pushed the hood back off her face, staring up at him, blinking in the rain. This was certainly not what she had expected to hear. "Why did you wait to tell me this?"

He shuffled his feet. "It never really meant anything to me, you know. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule, and so they kept me secret." Thora had a flash of what he must have been like as a child, hidden away for safekeeping and treated as an object more than as a person. Alistair raked his hand through his hair again, and went on, softly and painfully, "Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me … even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it." He met her eyes, looking somehow afraid. Did he think she would treat him differently now? Of course, he didn't know about the secret she kept, either. Perhaps it was time for full disclosure. Quietly, Alistair said, "I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm sorry."

Thora looked away. "No need for apology, Alistair. I think I understand why you did it. You see … I am also the child of a King. My father is Endrin Aeducan, King of Orzammar." She held her breath, waiting for his reaction, but he was nodding.

"I wondered when you'd say."

Her eyes widened. "You already knew? How did you know?"

"Daveth heard it from some of the dwarves at Ostagar, and he told me." The usual shadow passed across his face at the mention of Ostagar, but he looked at her steadily, blinking away the rain that coursed down his face.

"Oh. I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said.

Alistair laughed. "It's not like I have any room to be angry about that."

"No, I suppose not."

"If you're—a princess, why were you allowed to leave?"

Thora sighed, closing her eyes. She could see her brother Trian's bloody face, her brother Bhelen's glittering little eyes, and her father's back as he turned away from her. "I … I'm not ready to talk about it yet. When I am—you'll be the first. All right?"

"Fair enough. At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it."

"Are you sure you're not hiding anything else?" He looked startled, then realized she was teasing.

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing." He ran his hand through his hair again, trying to achieve his usual meticulously messy look.

"So I should be calling you Prince Alistair?"

"Only if I can call you Princess Thora."

"Maybe not, then." They smiled at each other.

In evident relief, Alistair said, "So now can we move on, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some … nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens?"

Thora felt sad that he preferred to think of himself as a nobody. "What does that make me?" she asked gently.

It was an off-the-cuff comment, lightly made, and so Thora was shocked when his eyes met hers, holding her gaze intensely. "You're the reason why I said I was lucky," he said huskily. Immediately a blush ran up his neck and to the very tips of his ears. He turned hastily away, down the hill toward the distant village.

Thora stood frozen, unable to move, feeling deep inside herself the stirring of a passion she hadn't felt in a very long time. Leliana was right, she thought in wonder, drawing his cloak closer around her, admitting to herself for the first time that the faint vestiges of his scent remaining in the fabric warmed her more than the wool.

At some point during their conversation, the rain had stopped and she hadn't even noticed.

* * *

_A/N: Thora's not the only one who fell for Alistair during this conversation. First playthrough of my first RPG, I had no clue there would be romance involved, and then he looked at me ... er, her, and said that all husky, and there went three months of my life devoted to a screen full of pixels with a great voice! Interestingly, I'd done nothing at all to romance him up to this point - didn't know you could - but no matter how hard I try, I've never been able to get him to say that again. I guess Thora was his first love. (On my PC, anyway!) _


	3. Thora and Alistair in the Tower

_Apologies for the delay in posting! You can blame my shiny new love affair with Fenris, which has me highly distracted. This is the last of the three chapters of the early romance (can you believe I actually held it to three chapters? Neither can I!). _Joined Fates_, the story of Alistair and Thora's wedding, should have its first chapter up next week, and there are a couple of new stories in the pipeline as well. My thanks to all my readers, particularly those who take the time to review, and to my beta, WellspringCD, whose wise counsel and sharp editing skills I've come to rely on._

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Thora drew her knees up, burying her face in them and huddling against the wall of the Tower. The dream Tower, she reminded herself. Nothing here was real.

It was hard to remember this was only a dream. It seemed like a lifetime that she'd been here, battling her way through nightmares. Now she'd cleared all the demons out of this particular version of the Tower, and she was entirely alone in a way she had never been in all her life. The only sound was the crackling of fires burning harmlessly in random places. It was, ironically, just the sort of solitude she had always dreamt of growing up in Orzammar. She used to imagine a great plague that would take out a huge proportion of the population, leaving her with entire rooms all to herself. Maybe this was all just another nightmare the Sloth demon had dreamed up for her, something more plausible and immersive than the first lazy attempt to place her at peace in Weisshaupt.

But if this was a dream to keep her occupied, the demon had missed out on the most important part: Alistair. As she battled her way through imaginary Tower after imaginary Tower, it became ever more clear to Thora how much she relied on her fellow Warden. He fought on her right, mostly, so once his shield had knocked an opponent on its rear Thora could go after it with her blades and finish it off. Fighting without him felt almost literally as though she had lost her right arm.

And it wasn't just in combat that she missed his presence. When the foes were vanquished, she was used to looking up over the prone bodies and seeing his quick grin, or hearing him say quietly, "I think we work well together." She realized, leaning against the all-too-real-feeling stone wall of the fake Tower, that solitude just wasn't satisfying without Alistair to share it with.

It was this lack, this emptiness at her side, that got Thora up off the wall, moving into the endless silence, and kept her battling on until at last she won through to her companions, one by one awakening them from dreams and watching them disappear. When she found Alistair, basking in childish domestic bliss with a sister he'd never met, it was as much as she could do not to throw herself into his arms. But he'd retreated to a younger age and would likely have been horrified to find himself with an armful of female dwarf.

She looked into his blankly happy eyes, eyes that recognized her but didn't know her, and in that moment it was obvious to her that she couldn't deny the truth any longer. Somewhere along the endless roads of Ferelden she had fallen in love with this man.

Alistair disappeared as the others had once the demons holding him were defeated … but having seen him, even if only briefly, gave Thora renewed energy to get through the rest of the puzzles and fight the Sloth demon itself. She had to get out of the Fade, somehow, because she had to tell him how she felt. Enough sitting at the campfire feeling him in her blood, feeling the warmth of him so close to her, wondering what he would do if she touched him. She had to know, once and for all, if he felt the same.

In the real Tower, Alistair crouched over her prone body, only just holding in the urge to shake her, to shout at her. "Wake up," he whispered. "Please?" He couldn't bear to think of her vibrancy fading away the way the mage, Niall, had. Alistair could tell that Niall had been dark-haired once, but now his hair was faded almost to white, the color drained from his robes. All the life had been leeched from him, and Alistair's imagination painted a picture of Thora looking the same.

He clutched at her desperately. What would he do without her? How would he fight Loghain, or defeat the Archdemon, or get where he was going with his pants still on without her? At last, her eyelids fluttered, and she looked up at him, blinking away the last fog of the Fade. Alistair held her more tightly in the intensity of his relief. "Alistair," she said softly, and a thrill ran through him. She'd never said his name in that tone before.

"Thora," he breathed. His thumb stroked gently across her cheek, the simple touch setting his heart pounding.

But there was no time for this. Wynne leaned over Alistair's shoulder. "Grey Warden, can you travel? We must hurry on. If there is anyone left to save, we have no time to lose."

Thora nodded, her brisk, businesslike nod, and she was on her feet, grasping Alistair's hand to pull herself up. Did she hold onto it a bit too long? Neither of them were sure.

The rest of the Tower was as horrific as they had come to expect their tasks to be, but they found the First Enchanter alive and in possession of his faculties, and at last they left the Circle Tower with Irving's promise of the mages' support in hand.

Outside, Thora turned her face up to the sun, relishing the fresh breeze and the scents of the outdoors that wafted over her. She'd have preferred a slightly warmer breeze, but being out of the Tower—all too suffocatingly like Orzammar for her taste—was enough. She felt Alistair's presence at her side and turned to look up at him.

He was staring down at her with an intensity that brought heat to her cheeks. Flustered, she said the first thing that came to mind. "So, um, why have you remained a templar if you hate the Chantry?"

Surprised, Alistair laughed. "Have you seen the uniform? It's not only stylish, but well-made." He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm a sucker for good tailoring."

"I thought templars wore heavy plate mostly."

"That's just in public. In private we have these yellow and purple tunics, right? Much more comfortable, and you don't break the beds when you jump on them during a pillow fight."

Thora shook her head, trying not to picture the helmeted templars she'd just seen having pillow fights. "And what's the real reason?" She looked across the lake, watching the boat slowly move toward them from the opposite side.

Alistair frowned. "You don't really want to know about my being a templar, do you? It's really quite boring."

She grinned. "Then make up something more interesting."

"You know, I like the way you think," he said. After a moment, he said, "Truthfully, I enjoyed the discipline. The education. It was a challenge. But I never felt at home in the Chantry." He shrugged. "I never felt at home anywhere until Duncan came and I found a home with the Grey Wardens." He looked down at her. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he'd never felt as secure, as right, as he felt with her, but she'd probably laugh at him, and then where would he be? "What about you?" he asked softly instead. "Do you have anywhere you consider home?"

The intense look was back in his eyes as they held hers, and Thora forgot about the boat bumping the dock, forgot about Wynne and Leliana waiting for them, forgot to breathe. Despite everything, she could see in his eyes that this was her moment—if she was going to tell him, it had to be now. But her mind was a blank. She'd never been in this position before, and she didn't know how to tell him. "I guess my home is with the Grey Wardens now, too," she said. Softly, so softly he had to lean over to hear her, she added, "With you." Tentatively, she reached out, touching his wrist, hoping he understood.

In the trembling of her lips and the liquid softness of her eyes Alistair saw what she couldn't manage to put into words. "It is?" His eyes lit up. "I … didn't know you felt that way." His face was so close to hers, her mouth so temptingly turned up to him, that he didn't have time to be nervous before his lips were brushing hers.

There was time for nothing more than that small taste of each other, as the boat was waiting, but now they knew. Alistair followed her to the boat feeling like the luckiest man in Thedas. He should give her something, he thought, let her know exactly how special she was to him. There was that rose in his pack …


End file.
